Looking back, my childhood in that small town feels like a patchwork quilt—stitched together with laughter, scraped knees, and the ever-present knowledge that my mother was a master of discipline. She had a knack for correcting a naughty boy’s behaviour, and I, being a spirited and endlessly curious child, gave her plenty of opportunities to hone her craft.
Her spankings were always sharp reminders, but never cruel. I’ve read stories of children who couldn’t sit for days, and I can’t fathom how any parent could be so harsh. My mother’s hand, or sometimes her trusty stick, stung enough to make me think twice, but never left bruises or lasting pain. Even on those days when I managed to earn two spankings before sunset, or when my mischief stretched across several days, the lesson was always clear: punishment was for teaching, not for hurting.
(short pause) There was a rhythm to our home—a sense of order and consequence. My parents believed in rules, and in the idea that love sometimes meant being the one to enforce them. I learned early that the world had boundaries, and that crossing them came with a price. But I also learned that those boundaries were set because I was loved, because my parents cared enough to guide me, even when it meant a red bottom and a tearful apology.
Of all the misdeeds that could land me over my mother’s knee, lying was the cardinal sin. I marvel now at the wild stories I spun, convinced in my childish arrogance that I could outsmart the adults. The miracle wasn’t just that I ever managed to sit down after some of those spankings, but that my mother never gave up on me, never left me to someone else’s care, no matter how much I tested her patience.
(pause) My mother’s patience was legendary. I pushed her to her limits, yet she never lost control. Her discipline was measured, her love unwavering. I remember once, after a particularly bad day, she sat beside me on my bed, her hand gentle on my back, and told me that she spanked because she wanted me to grow up strong and honest. That moment, more than any punishment, stayed with me.
But there is one memory that stands out above all the rest—a memory so vivid, so deeply etched into my mind, that even now I can recall every detail: the day after Halloween, when my world shrank to the four walls of my bedroom and the sting of my mother’s discipline.
The morning began with the crinkle of candy wrappers and the sweet, forbidden scent of chocolate. I was sulking, my arms crossed, my eyes fixed on the dwindling pile of treats. My mother had set a strict limit, and I, stubborn as ever, was determined to have more. I tried every trick I knew—pleading, bargaining, even sneaking a piece when her back was turned. But she was unyielding, her voice calm but firm, her eyes never missing a thing.
Then the phone rang, slicing through my whining like a knife. I watched as my mother’s face changed, her lips tightening, her eyes narrowing as she listened. The words “yes, Mrs. Miller, I’ll take care of it” sent a chill down my spine. My heart thudded in my chest, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I knew, in that instant, that my secret was out.
“Mrs. Miller says you stole candy from her last night?” My mother’s voice was quiet, but there was a weight to it that made my stomach twist. I denied it, my voice trembling, my eyes darting to the floor. I’d been so sure I was clever—waiting until she left the room, taking just enough candy to avoid suspicion. But mothers have a way of knowing, and mine was no exception. She dialed Steve Boxer’s mother, and I held my breath, my hands clenched into fists, hoping for a miracle.
(short pause) Steve, my partner in crime, cracked under pressure. The truth spilled out, and I felt the world tilt beneath me. My mother’s face was unreadable as she took me by the hand and marched me from the kitchen to my bedroom. My cheeks burned with shame, my legs felt heavy, and my heart pounded so loudly I thought she must hear it.
The room felt colder than usual, the afternoon light slanting through the curtains, dust motes swirling in the air. My mother closed the door behind us, her footsteps measured and deliberate. She sat on the edge of my bed and patted her lap, her eyes meeting mine with a look that was both stern and sorrowful. “You know why you’re here,” she said softly. I nodded, unable to speak, my throat tight with fear and regret.
She told me to lower my trousers and lie across her knee. The act itself was humiliating—my face flushed, my hands trembling as I obeyed. I could feel the rough fabric of her skirt against my skin, the cool air on my bare legs. My heart hammered in my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for what was to come.
The first smack landed with a sharp, stinging sound, and I gasped, the pain blooming across my skin. Each spank was a punctuation mark, her words falling in time with the blows: “These are for stealing. These are for lying.” The sting built with each strike, a hot, prickling ache that made my eyes water and my breath hitch. I tried to hold back the tears, but they came anyway, hot and silent, slipping down my cheeks as I clung to the bedspread.
The world shrank to the sound of her hand, the heat in my skin, the ache in my chest. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and deeply ashamed—not just for what I’d done, but for disappointing her. When it was over, she let me up gently, her hand lingering on my back. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “But you must learn to be honest.”
I lay on my stomach, rubbing away the fire, my face buried in the pillow. The room was quiet except for my sniffling, the muffled sounds of my siblings playing outside a distant reminder of the world beyond my shame. The sting lingered, a throbbing heat that made it impossible to forget the lesson. But worse than the pain was the knowledge that I would have to face Mrs. Miller and confess what I’d done.
(pause) The walk to Mrs. Miller’s house felt like a march to the gallows. My legs were shaky, my cheeks still wet with tears. My mother walked beside me, her hand firm on my shoulder. When Mrs. Miller opened the door, her kind eyes softened as she listened to my apology. I could barely meet her gaze, my voice barely above a whisper. She forgave me, but the shame lingered, heavy and inescapable.
But the story didn’t end there. In the twisted logic of a nine-year-old, I decided the real villain was Steve, for telling the truth and getting me caught. After my apology, I found him behind the school and let my anger out with fists and shouts. Of course, that only led to more trouble. When his mother called mine, I lied again, desperate to avoid another round of punishment.
This time, there were witnesses—my sisters, Steve, even a neighbor who’d seen the scuffle. My mother’s face turned a deep shade of red as she told me to go to my room and strip down. I knew what was coming: another spanking, this time for fighting and for lying. She made me lie on my stomach, her hand firm but not cruel, the stick delivering five spanks for the fight and ten for the lie. Each swat was a sharp, burning reminder of my choices, the pain building until I could barely catch my breath. She powdered me, pinned on my diapers, and sent me to bed, my pride as sore as my bottom.
Dinner that night was a lesson in humility. I sat at the table in just a T-shirt and diapers, my embarrassment plain for all to see. My father’s raised eyebrow said it all, and I had to confess my misdeeds. It hurt to admit I’d lied and stolen, but it was a pain that taught me more than any spanking ever could.
(short pause) The aftermath of those spankings was always the hardest part. The physical sting faded, but the emotional ache lingered. I would lie in bed, the afternoon sun slanting through the window, the sounds of laughter drifting in from outside. In those quiet moments, I felt the weight of my choices, the ache of regret, but also the comfort of knowing I was loved enough to be corrected. My mother would often come in later, sit beside me, and stroke my hair.
